


Syncope (Thanksgiving Remix)

by shyday



Series: Syncope [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados in Training, Bromance, Community: daredevilkink, Fainting, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Migraine, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d just been so excited to introduce this new member of his family to the rest of them. And he hates the idea of Matt spending the holidays alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Syncope (Thanksgiving Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be part two of a Five Things kinkmeme prompt fill about Matt fainting – and still might be, since I’ve got three of the other bits started – but it began to get lengthy. And it feels like I’ve been away from this fandom for a long time. With the speed at which I’m writing these days, it seemed best to just post it on its own lest it never get read at all. A little something for those of you who might have missed me.
> 
> Set pre-series during the law school days, it’s more BarelyMobileMigraineMatt from me. Those of you who continue to be frustrated with my endings – or lack thereof – will probably find no joy here either. (I do strive to get things to at least a natural stopping point… but I’m aware that sometimes I get closer than others. It’s just that there’s always more that can be said. And if I waited to post a fic until I was completely satisfied with its ending – or until I thought it was good – I’d honestly never post anything at all. I agonize over this stuff to absurd levels. At some point I just have to close my eyes and click the button.) But know that I hear ya, and I’m always keeping you in mind. Please continue to send your honest feedback.
> 
> Hurt/comfort bromance. Netflix/Marvel canon. I make no money, because they don’t belong to me.

* * *

 

 

 

It’s two days before Thanksgiving, and Foggy’s playing an unplanned game of hide-and-seek.

 

He can’t find Matt anywhere. He’s checked every unlocked room in the house – twice, and this includes the hall closets – with an increasing anxiety that he’s struggling to keep off his face. It’s difficult, but necessary when it feels like there’s a family member waiting around every corner. Everybody wanting to catch up _now_ , when they’ve got an entire week. When his friend is missing.

 

_Not missing_ , he tells himself. _Temporarily misplaced_.

 

But this twisting of semantics doesn’t change the situation, and it’s hard to keep smiling politely at the man in front of him. His cousin’s husband Jim, looking for legal advice; Foggy hasn’t been paying attention to the details. He’s too busy counting the seconds he stands here, trying to track the sequence of the morning and figure out when he last saw Matt.

 

“… so then this guy says, ‘Sorry, buddy, not my problem.’ Can you believe that?”

 

He’d been with them outside for a while, but then the impromptu football game had started up; at some point Foggy’d glanced over to find that he’d wandered away. Which was totally okay. Because Matt can take care of himself. Foggy knows this, but he has to keep repeating it. To drown out the tiny voice whispering _except_.

 

Except he’s never been here before. Except there’s about an acre of untended land surrounding Foggy’s grandparents’ house. Except the two-lane road out front has a hairpin curve that the local drivers always take way too fast.

 

“… but now I keep getting these letters. Do you think there’s anything I can do?”

 

Except there’s that creek at the edge of the property. The one with the steep crumbly bank.

 

Foggy’s stomach flips. “I, uh… Let me think about it. Talk to Matt.” He’s got to find Matt.

 

“Great. Thanks.”

 

“Sure.” Foggy’s backing away before he realizes that his feet are moving. “Not a problem.”

 

He forces himself not to run down the stairs, to offer a carefree smile to each relative he passes. Because Matt’s fine. Definitely. And he’s not going to appreciate it if Foggy gives anyone the impression otherwise. There’s still plenty of people outside, the youngest kids tearing shrieking circles around adults slumped on patches of grass – it seems like the whole family’s coming this year – but he can’t ask any of them if they’ve seen his friend. Just one, and within minutes everyone would know Matt was missing.

 

_Misplaced. You just don’t know where he is. He’s fine._

 

He throws his brother a casual wave when they make eye contact as he passes, but Foggy doesn’t stop. He’s headed for the tree line, the creek; his crafted pace already feels agonizingly slow. The day’s bright, still cool but unseasonably warm for November, and the cheerful sun silently mocks his dark concern. Slim chance that the creek’s frozen over then. Foggy walks a little faster.

 

The trees are mostly bare-limbed, and his shoes crunch over a multicolored carpet of their fallen leaves. It’s hard to imagine Matt coming through this way, especially after Foggy trips over a buried root and nearly ends up on his face. He starts checking the ground for Matt-shaped lumps. Doesn’t see any, but this doesn’t bring with it much comfort. After all, there’s still the threat of the water.

 

Pictures painted with horrible possibility swirl in his head. Speed up his pace.

 

But there’s Matt. Just fine. Sitting against a tree, the slope of the land keeping him hidden until now; when Foggy spots him he literally stumbles under the flood of relief. He quickly tries to compose himself. Matt’s got his forehead resting on his knees. His head comes up as Foggy approaches, and the sunlight glints off the frame of his glasses.

 

“Hey,” Foggy says when he gets near enough. An effort to force it so level. “I was looking for you.”

 

Matt’s big winter coat seems to swallow him. “Sorry. The game sounded like fun; I didn’t want to interrupt to tell you I was going. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“Pff. Who’s scared? I knew you were okay.” He can still feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

 

There’s a distant playful screech from one of the children, so faint that Foggy can’t tell if it’s one of the boys or the girls. Matt cringes, turns away toward the water.

 

Foggy looks that way too. He can’t see the creek either, but the slant of the bank begins only about twenty feet from here. Too close. “What’s the matter, Murdock? Sick of my family already?” He kicks a couple of leaves in Matt’s direction. “If the answer’s yes, by the way, I will totally understand.”

 

Matt’s head snaps back around, and the glasses can’t entirely mask the wince that accompanies the motion. “No, of course not,” he rushes to say. His fingertips rub at his temple for a moment. It’s an action stopped abruptly; he wraps his arms around his bent legs instead. “Who won the game?” he asks, turning away again.

 

Foggy frowns, tucks his hair behind his ear. “They cheated. You have a headache?”

 

“Mm.” Definitely not a no.

 

“Still?” There’d been something off about him yesterday; he’d admitted to the headache when Foggy had pressed him about it. “That sucks.”

 

“It’s quiet over here,” Matt says. Another nonanswer. The invisible creek gurgles.

 

“And very much not in a house crammed full of people,” he agrees. There’ll probably be even more tomorrow. “Geez. How bad?” He’s seen some of Matt’s headaches in the few years they’ve lived together, a couple of them full-blown migraines that had knocked him flat. He’s a little afraid to hear the answer.

 

Matt gives a minute shake of his head, barely a movement. If Foggy wasn’t studying him so intently, he’d have missed it. “Not bad. Annoying.”

 

“I bet.” Foggy searches for signs that Matt’s giving him less than the truth. He’s upright at least, forming sentences. It’s been worse. “Can I do anything?”

 

This gets him another look at Matt’s face – maybe a bit pale, hard to say in the thin fall light – and even a hint of a smile. “Go spend time with your family. You don’t get to see them very often.”

 

“Sure,” Foggy says. He stays where he is.

 

“Really. I’m okay.”

 

“Okay,” he echoes. He tramples a few more leaves on his way to sit beside Matt on the ground, leans his back against the same tree. “But maybe you’re not the only one who needs a break. It’s quiet out here.”

 

Matt goes still, weighing this. Measuring something that Foggy can’t see. Eventually he seems to accept the words at face value; Foggy’s facing in another direction entirely, but he can feel his friend finally relax a little. Like a change in the direction of the breeze.

 

They sit together in silence for a while, listening to the world rotate. More sharp noises float from the yard, and Foggy feels guilty for not thinking this through. He’d just been so excited to introduce this new member of his family to the rest of them. And he hates the idea of Matt spending the holidays alone. It’d taken _years_ to convince Matt to come out here with him; Foggy suspects the only reason it worked this time was that he’d run out of creative ways to say no.

 

A wind picks up, whistling softly through the skeletal trees. It’s sad and haunting – maybe venturing into the territory of eerie – and Foggy’s trying to think of something to say to drown it out because now it seems like the only thing he can hear. He’s distracted from this pursuit when Matt suddenly stiffens beside him; long seconds later, Foggy picks up the crashing of small feet headed their way.

 

Two of his young nieces appear at the top of the ridge, launch into a tumbling run down the hill. “Uncle Foggy! Uncle Foggy!” One of them hits a particularly shrill note, and Matt twitches in his peripheral vision. There’s an audible breath pulled in through his nose, the rustling of leaves as he straightens out his legs. When Foggy glances that way, he’s already got an artificial smile glued to his lips.

 

He rolls his eyes, wishing Matt could see it.

 

Now the girls are upon them, all energy and enthusiasm. Both of them attempting to talk over the other, a jumbled recounting of all their adventures in the hour or so since he’s last seen them. He can’t really make sense of any of it, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They tug at his arms, trying to pull him to his feet.

 

“Come see our new game,” Amelia demands.

 

Emily glares at her sister. “We’re ‘pposed to tell him it’s time for lunch. You never listen.”

 

“I listen,” Amelia protests. She looks Foggy in the eyes and enunciates with the utmost seriousness, “It’s time for lunch.”

 

He grins at her. “Excellent. One of my favorite times of the day.”

 

“Come eat with us. Gramma says we can have a picnic on the porch, if we keep our coats on.” More tugging. Their gloved hands are tiny on his sleeves, almost impossibly so. He’s marveling at this when Emily leans close to add in a loud whisper, “Your friend can come too.”

 

Amelia’s openly staring at Matt; Foggy wonders if he can somehow tell. “I’ll ask him,” he assures Emily, at the same volume. She nods, throws a few darting looks of her own Matt’s way. Foggy raises his voice to normal and says, “Why don’t you guys go start without us. If we don’t make it back for the picnic, I will _definitely_ be there to check out this awesome new game. Promise.”

 

Emily grabs her sister’s hand. She drags her a few steps away, and there’s a hasty hushed conference that dissolves into a fit of giggles. When Amelia ominously calls over her shoulder, “Okay you promised,” and they run away still laughing, Foggy begins to suspect that this game might end with him looking completely ridiculous.

 

An undeniable calm descends as their whirlwind disappears. Foggy’s used to the noise and bustle of his big family, but it’s hard not to notice the difference. He breathes it in for a few minutes before twisting around to be able to see Matt. “So what do you think? Lunch?”

 

"Sure." The answer comes too fast, is way too eager.

 

Foggy snorts. “Okay, I know you’re not that excited. _I’m_ not that excited.” He pushes himself up off the ground. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to eat with the munchkins.”

 

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” Matt picks up his cane, stands slowly. A breeze ruffles through his hair, invisible fingers toying with the ends. “Really, your family’s great. I’m having a good time.”

 

“Uh-huh.” As if Foggy can’t tell the difference between his real smile and this tight-lipped performance. He nudges the back of Matt’s hand with his elbow; Matt’s fingers curl around his arm. “You know, for a lawyer, you’re kind of a shitty liar.”

 

A quirk of his lips, the corner of his eye; genuine amusement, and Foggy feels rewarded. “Think I still need that class to graduate,” Matt says. They walk back through the trees, the wind murmuring in their ears. “Those were your sister’s kids?”

 

It’s an artful change of subject, one that keeps Foggy talking until they’re within sight of the house. There’s a picnic blanket spread out across half of the porch as threatened, but as they approach Foggy sees that his sister Sarah and their cousin Julie have already joined the girls. There’s little room left on the blanket with all the other kids who are trying to squeeze in.

 

He delivers this good news, and Matt makes a few noises that are probably supposed to sound disappointed. But his grip on Foggy’s arm eases a bit.

 

They climb the steps to the porch together, reaching the front door just as Foggy’s mom is coming out. Her round face wears its usual broad smile, and Foggy can’t help but grin back. “There you two are,” she says. “Come inside and get something to eat.”

 

But Emily has been alerted to their proximity. She jumps up, nearly stepping on more than one plate as she runs over. “Gramma, Uncle Foggy’s gonna eat with _us_.”

 

His mom looks over at the group already assembled, lays a hand on the top of the girl’s head. “It doesn’t look like there’s a whole lot of room out here. I think Foggy and Matt are going to have to eat inside this time.”

 

Emily pouts. She turns on Foggy with the most absurd puppy dog eyes that he’s ever seen, and he wonders if she’ll work up a tear or two just to round the whole look off. He doesn’t doubt her ability to do so. “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s always dinner. And breakfast. And another lunch, and another dinner – a midnight snack, of course – and then another breakfast and another lunch and another dinner and…” He trails off when she finally cracks a smile. “Besides, what you _should_ be worried about is your sister. It looks like she’s gonna eat all your chips.”

 

Emily spins around to see her sister snag something off of her plate. “Amelia!” she howls, heading full speed that way. Matt sucks in a quick breath, his fingers spasming around Foggy’s elbow.

 

His eyes slide sideways. His impression of Matt is all sharp angles and rigid lines. “Okay?”

 

“Yeah.” The answer’s squeezed between clenched teeth.

 

“Let’s get you some food,” Foggy’s mom says.

 

He shifts his focus to her, but she’s watching Matt. “Great idea. I’m _starving_ ,” he answers anyway. “What’re we having?” he adds, as much for Matt’s benefit as his own.

 

“Oh, nothing fancy.” They follow her into the house, wiggle out of their coats. Foggy finds himself suddenly overly conscious of the noise level; it seems like there are people everywhere. “Sandwiches – ham and tuna – corn on the cobb, potato salad, cole slaw. You boys sit down, and I’ll fix you a couple of plates.”

 

“Better idea,” Foggy counters. “Amongst my many talents, I excel at gathering food.” There are a few people already scattered around the big dining table; he stops Matt behind a straight-backed chair at one end. “Sit here and distract her into taking a break,” Foggy tells him, loudly enough so that his mom is sure to hear. “Please. I think she’s been cooking since _dawn_.”

 

“I have not,” she protests. But she pulls out a chair and sits down.

 

“Sure,” Matt agrees, doing the same. There’s an exaggerated caution to his motions that Foggy hopes he’s imagining. And he’s still got that stupid fake smile pasted on his face.

 

Foggy’d ask him what he wants to eat, but he suspects that the answer is likely nothing. “No swapping embarrassing stories,” he says instead. “At least not until I get back and can properly defend myself. Ham or tuna fish, Murdock?” The only choice he gets.

 

“I –“ The honest answer falters when Matt recognizes the trap he’s been steered into; Foggy’s betting there’s no way Matt’ll risk insulting his host – or sparking her concern – by refusing. He’s right. “Uh, ham.”

 

“Mom?”

 

“Tuna. But I’m happy to –“

 

“Nope. I’m already going.” He glances at Matt one more time, stiff as a statue in his chair. His eyes jump to meet his mother’s, flick away. “Be right back,” he says.

 

The sideboard against the wall is piled with an army’s worth of food. Foggy makes a bit of small talk with one of his teenage nephews, loads up two plates and returns to the table. “Got you a little bit of everything,” he tells Matt as he sets one in front of him. “There’s a fork.”

 

Matt thanks him, but he doesn’t reach for it. Foggy hands the other plate to his mom, goes back to make one for himself. At the table again he takes the empty chair on the other side of Matt; his friend and his mother are wrapped up in a conversation about an author he’s never heard of. From across the dining table, his brother-in-law Sam joins in. Foggy listens for about five minutes before he gets bored.

 

Instead he turns the opposite way and joins an intense debate over the merits of _Star Wars_ versus _Star Trek_. The victor seems obvious, but the passionate discussion absorbs all of his focus. He can’t say for how long it goes on, but it peters out with an agreement that a marathon of both needs to be had. They decide to begin right after lunch.

 

He’s already inhaled most of the food in front of him, but a glance to his left reveals Matt’s plate apparently untouched. Not a huge surprise – he’s already learned that Matt has a tendency to avoid eating with the slightest provocation – but still disappointing. Foggy thinks back over the last few meals they’ve had here; there’s only flashes of good food and good company, laughter and the faces of family. No clear picture of Matt at all, really.

 

He hasn’t been paying enough attention. He’s got no clue when Matt might’ve last eaten.

 

Though Sam and his mom are still talking, Foggy realizes that Matt’s now barely participating. His forced smile’s slipping into something more like a grimace, and their words crisscross the table top while he sits silent and taut on the fringes of their conversation. Occasionally one of them will glance in his direction, as if hoping to reinclude him. Every so often Matt makes a noncommittal noise, like he’s trying to stay involved.

 

“But the fact that the character gets introduced so late is what gives her the impact she has,” Sam argues.

 

“Maybe so,” Foggy’s mom says. “I’m only saying that I wish we’d gotten to see more of her.”

 

“I don’t think she would’ve been as interesting…”

 

There’s a tiny lull in the dialogue. The sound that Matt dredges up is sticky with false contemplation.

 

His hands are in his lap and mostly hidden by the tablecloth, but Foggy can tell that at least one of them is curled into a fist. Judging by that pained squint, he doubts the guy will object if he invents an excuse for them to get out of here soon. Matt’s making a valiant effort. But there’s no denying that he’s starting to look pretty uncomfortable.

 

When three of the little kids tear through the room – too much of a blur to immediately sort out who’s who – the moment is chosen for him. “No running in the house!” Sam bellows, and Matt flinches violently enough to rock the chair. He shudders, his breathing going shallow and deliberate. One of his hands shifts to a grip on his leg, fingers digging into his thigh.  

 

Sam doesn’t seem to notice, but Foggy’s mom does; her eyes bounce alarmed from Matt to Foggy behind him. He offers her a vague flip of his hand meant to convey that she shouldn’t worry, but she appears no less concerned. A mute argument briefly ensues through the air over Matt’s bowed head.

 

Foggy ends it by pushing his chair back from the table and standing. Matt’s head comes up when he puts a hand on his shoulder; too quickly, if the hard swallow is anything to go by. “Sorry, Mom, but I need to borrow Matt for a minute.” Matt looks lost. Foggy sees it in the set of his shoulders, the tilting of his head. “I need to talk to you. About that thing,” he tells him. As if this will clarify anything.

 

“Just as well,” his mom adds. “I saw my mother wander back into the kitchen a few minutes ago. I should go see if she needs any help. Who knows what in the world she’s baking _now_.”

 

Foggy doesn’t know if this is true, but he flashes her a grateful smile.

 

Matt’s trembling under his hand, but he grabs his cane and gets to his feet without trouble. He starts to turn back toward the table, rights himself with a stumbled step when he overbalances. Whatever he says is mostly a mumble, but Foggy catches the word _plate_.

 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it.” Matt looks like he wants to fight about it, but he gives in with a rough exhale and a nod. He takes Foggy’s offered arm.

 

The room they’re sharing is on the first floor, a tiny bedroom that once belonged to his mom’s twin brothers. It’s the same room Foggy’s always slept in when he’s stayed here. Its position in a back corner of the house gives it a childish illusion of isolation, and it’s in this direction that Foggy leads them. Matt’s a mess of coiled muscle beside him. Foggy feels like he’s absorbing that tension through their physical connection; it tingles up his arm to settle like a stone in his neck.

 

They’re nearly there when Amelia finds them, calling his name as she chases them down the narrow hallway. Matt’s shoulders ratchet up to his ears. “Ten feet. Door’s open,” Foggy tells him. He’s anticipating some kind of token protest at least, but all he gets is another weary nod. Matt detaches himself to cross the rest of the distance on his own. Foggy turns to brave his niece.

 

She’s still wearing her coat, her cheeks pink after rushing in from outside. “You said you’d come play.”

 

He wonders if she and her sister practice that pout. “And I’m absolutely going to. I just have to talk to my friend for a minute, okay?”

 

She considers this, her eyes jumping between Foggy and the door behind him. “Okay. But hurry up. Come outside.”

 

He assures her again that he will and, temporarily satisfied, she scampers off down the hallway. He wonders how much time he’s bought himself. Probably not long. Foggy heads to their room to see how Matt’s faring, feeling tired already.

 

Matt looks worse. Perched on the edge of one of the small identical beds, he doesn’t raise his head as Foggy closes the door. One hand grips the mattress and the other pushes up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, and Foggy upgrades his earlier estimate of _uncomfortable_ to _miserable_.

 

Downgrades?

 

He sits on the other bed facing Matt, only about a foot of space between their bent knees. It seems stupid to ask how he’s doing. “So…” Foggy starts lamely.

 

The glasses slide back into place as Matt drops his hand, but the clamped hold on the mattress doesn’t slacken. “You have a date.” The words feel carefully shaped. They’re directed toward the floor.

 

“So it seems,” he agrees, talking to the part in Matt’s hair.

 

“I, uh… Do you mind if I stay here?” It’s quiet. Apologetic in its undertow.

 

It tickles a shiver up Foggy’s spine. He struggles to keep the unease from his tone. “I do not. I was going to suggest it. No reason for both of us to suffer.” Matt’s sigh ripples through his entire torso. “Take a nap,” Foggy recommends. “I’m living vicariously through you.”

 

“Hope not,” Matt murmurs, “for your sake.” He pulls his legs up, tipping sideways until he ends up a cramped ball on the bed.

 

“You need anything?”

 

“Lobotomy,” he mumbles.

 

“I was thinking more like ibuprofen.” Foggy stands. “But my sister Sarah’s a nurse. I’ll see if she wants to give it a shot.”

 

Matt stirs, frowning. He’s clearly unhappy with the idea of involving someone else in any capacity. “Don’t… m’okay,” he insists, shifting like he intends to sit up again to prove it.

 

Foggy puts a hand on his shoulder, and he sinks back into the mattress with little resistance. “I can tell. You are the poster child of okay.” Matt’s scowl is mashed against the pillow. “But at least one of us deserves a nap. And, sadly, my presence is required elsewhere. Unless you want to fight for it? Rock, paper, scissors?”

 

Matt half-heartedly offers his middle finger.

 

The uncharacteristic response elicits a startled chuckle, and a bit of his brain whispers that Matt’s only ever this snarky when he’s feeling at his worst. “You win. Try to get some rest; I’ll be back in a bit. If you’re looking for me, I’ll probably be outside.”

 

Matt makes a noise of general acknowledgement; Foggy doesn’t press him for more. He needs to go. If he lingers too long, he doesn’t doubt that Emily and Amelia will show up to hunt him down. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a fortifying breath. When he leaves the room, he shuts the door quietly but firmly behind himself.  

 

The invented game is a complicated one – somehow involving both jump rope and animal imitations – and Foggy’s lack of understanding ensures that he’s on the losing end. This necessitates a lot of physical activity on his part; by the time they declare the game to be over and him to finally be free, Foggy is thoroughly wiped out. The kids might be cute, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to constantly muster this level of energy.

 

He re-enters the house through the kitchen, and the cuckoo clock on the wall informs him that he’s been outside with the girls for almost three hours. He decides that he’s got a right to be worn down. His mom greets him from the sink where she’s washing a pile of dishes; his grandmother glances up from the cookie dough she’s rolling out on the table to do the same. He says hello to them both, opens a cabinet door and grabs a clean glass.

 

“How’s Matt?” his mom asks as he’s opening the fridge to get the water pitcher. “He didn’t look well at lunch.”

 

“He’s fine,” Foggy says into the cold vault of the refrigerator. It’s packed with preprepped ingredients for the big meal. “Just a headache.” He tries to sound unconcerned, knowing Matt would want him to downplay the whole thing. Knowing he’d prefer this discussion wasn’t happening at all. But it’s definitely easier to say it nonchalantly with his back to her like this.

 

“Hmm…” He’s never been able to lie to his mother; it’s obvious she doesn’t believe him now. Still, he has to close the refrigerator and face her sometime. “Can I make him something? He didn’t eat anything earlier.” She sounds like she’d be prepared to legally adopt Matt if she could, if she thought it might help.

 

He turns around to give her a smile. “He’ll be okay, Mom.” She shuts off the faucet, looking skeptical as she dries her hands. “Maybe some toast?” he suggests, hoping to pacify her.

 

"I can do toast," she says with a nod. She seems happier having been given something concrete to do. Foggy wishes that he could say that he felt the same.

 

Ten minutes and a whole lot of reassurances later, he’s returning to their room with the toast and the water. It’s an awkward process to get the door open with both of his hands full; his fumbling echoes loudly in the hallway. If Matt _had_ been sleeping, Foggy’s guessing that he probably isn’t any more.

 

Oops.

 

When he enters he finds Matt lying on the bed, on his back with a forearm arm slung up over his eyes. He’s abandoned his glasses on the comforter, kicked his shoes off into a lump on the floor; his feet in their white socks hang off the end of the mattress. It’s a fairly decent impression of rest, relaxation. Almost convincing.

 

If he pretends not to see the other hand, twisting clawed fingers into the bedsheets.

 

Foggy crosses the little room, leaves the food and water on the nightstand between the beds. He moves to the dresser and slides open a drawer, grabs Matt’s backpack from the floor and begins shoving clothes inside. This gets a reaction; in his peripheral vision Matt lowers his arm, rolls his head over the pillow to face Foggy’s direction. “…’re you doing?”

 

“Packing.” Matt cringes, and Foggy lowers his voice. “Because this is officially ridiculous.”

 

“Huh?” He blinks sluggishly; his eyebrows pull together as he slowly puts the pieces into place. “Wait… Fog, no…” Not much of an argument, but one he attempts to substantiate by propping himself up on an elbow. It’s a shaky support at best.

 

They’d rented a car to drive out here; he can take Matt back to the city, return tomorrow. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t mind.” His fault to begin with.

 

“ _I_ do.” Matt pushes himself up into a jumble of limbs against the old wooden headboard, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his teeth grind together. His fingers find his glasses and he puts them on. “I’m fine. No reason to leave.”

 

“I think you might be forgetting which one of us can actually see how bad you look.” But he reconsiders; Matt’s clearly going to be stubborn about this, and Foggy really doesn’t have the energy to do battle. He puts down the backpack. For now. “But, hey – you want to stay and suffer? We can stay. I’m certainly not one to interfere in a friend’s masochistic tendencies. Did you sleep at all?”

 

Matt shrugs, straightening up a little further. Sitting up in stages. He turns toward the nightstand, sniffs; the toast is plain and cold, and Foggy wonders what it could possibly smell like.

 

“Bread and water,” he says. “Compliments of the chef.” He digs into his pocket, fishes out the two round pills his mother had insisted he take with him. “Eat it, and you win the ibuprofen.”

 

“Thanks.” Matt doesn’t move to take any of it; Foggy can’t tell if his eyes are open behind those tinted lenses. The back of his head rests heavily against the wall.

 

The space seems even smaller in their silence, and Foggy doesn’t really know what to do with himself. There’s a framed picture of his mother and her siblings on the dresser; he picks it up, studying young faces for glimpses of the people he knows. “It’s early. You want to try and sleep some more? Or there’s supposed to be a sci-fi marathon happening. We could veg out in front of the TV.”

 

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Matt grumbles from the bed.

 

Foggy returns the photo to its place. “Not everything’s about you, Matthew. I’ll have you know that today I’ve both played a _very_ strenuous game of football and spent far too much time with a jump rope in my hands. Way more exercise than I am accustomed to. My feet hurt.” He realizes as he says it that they do. He slips out of his shoes.

 

“Jump rope?” Matt makes a choked noise that’s nearly a laugh. “What?”

 

“You heard me. So? You up for TV and company?”

 

The first expression that flickers over Matt’s face tells Foggy that this is absolutely the _last_ thing that he wants to do. But he crushes his lips into a thin smile. His feeblest attempt yet. “Sure. Sounds good.”

 

Foggy’s about to call him out on it, but there’s an element of morbid fascination as he watches his friend determinedly leverage himself off the headboard, swing his legs over the side of the bed. Still, he can’t let this go on. Matt’s obviously in no shape to be going anywhere but home. Foggy opens his mouth to tell him so as Matt pushes himself to his feet.

 

It’s a mistake. Matt freezes, sways. “Ooh… Fog? I, uh… I d—“

 

His knees buckle, dropping him to the threadbare rug with a jarring thud. His head bounces off Foggy’s mattress on the way down.

 

“ _Shit_. Matt?” He can’t see Matt until he rounds the end of the nearest bed; his heart pounds in his chest as he moves toward the heap of his best friend. He tries to find some comfort in the fact that this has happened before, but there’s no solace in it. Foggy lowers himself to his knees in the narrow space, his hands hovering over Matt’s crumpled form without knowing where to land. “Matt? Buddy?” He finally settles for patting him lightly on the cheek, trying to rouse him. He’s pretty sure he saw somebody do it in a movie somewhere.

 

_Pulse. You’re also supposed to check his pulse._ But Matt’s clearly breathing, clearly still alive. And Foggy has no idea what’s normal anyway. He taps Matt again, the skin clammy under his fingers. Matt groans.

 

“Oh thank god,” Foggy breathes, deflating to sit back on his heels.

 

Matt stirs, some instinct compelling him to immediately try and push himself up. But his arms can’t find the right angle; before Foggy can intervene, he gives up and rolls onto his back. His glasses hang bent, hooked over only one ear.

 

“Fog?” He makes a doomed effort to raise his head off of the rug; they both wince when it reconnects hard with the floor underneath. “Ow…” Matt moans. The dangling glasses are forced off of his face in his haste to press his hands to his forehead. They tumble to the floor, and Foggy snags them to toss them to safety. “That was… ow. Uh, Fog? You’re here?”

 

He suspects Matt intended that to sound more like a statement than a question, despite the way it goes up a bit at the end. “Right here. You okay? You know, considering?”

 

“Nngh,” is the answer. Early afternoon though it is, the winter sun is already beginning to blur into faint wisps of orange and pink. Matt looks grey in the light coming in through the window. “Dizzy,” he admits, dragging his hands down his face to scrub at his skin.

 

“All right,” Foggy says, like he’s got some sense of what he’s supposed to be doing, “here’s the plan. You stay where you are, and I’m going to go find my sister. After she’s promised me that you’re in no imminent danger of death, we are getting out of here.”  

 

He’d expected Matt to protest, but he hadn’t predicted how vehemently. “What? No, don’t –” he starts frantically, the words tripping over themselves as he scrambles sit up. Foggy’s already getting to his feet when Matt’s hand latches on to his arm – with surprising strength – and his momentum carries them a few vertical inches together before the imbalance crashes them awkwardly back to their knees.

 

Matt makes a low pained sound, slumping against the side of the bed with his head lolling on his chest. “Ugh…” Fresh sweat dots his upper lip, his temples. He swallows convulsively, fumbles for a handhold in the sheets above him as he’s suddenly in motion again, struggling to get up. “… think… Fog…“

 

The message is clear. “I’m on it.” Foggy lunges for the metal trash can wedged under the nightstand; he gets the thing into Matt’s hands, turns the opposite way. He wishes he didn’t to have to be here to listen, but the futile retching seems to confirm that it’s been a while since Matt’s eaten.

 

Not that he wants to think about food right now. Or ever again.

 

“God,” Matt rasps when it stops, “I’m so sorry...”

 

“For what? _I’m_ sorry. This is totally my fault.” He gets more comfortable on the floor beside Matt. Matt shifts the trash can from his lap to the other side of his body, but he keeps a hand on it.

 

"M’ruining your holiday.” His head falls limply against the bed. He looks exhausted.

 

“Never.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“Are there things that are more fun than this? Definitely. But the holiday’s far from ruined, my friend. And still two whole days away. Don’t worry about me.” Matt’s eyes are barely open; Foggy can see more white than hazel under the fluttering lashes. “How do you feel about moving to the bed? Let’s say on a scale of one to ten.”

 

Matt blinks at the ceiling. “Why?”

 

“Why the bed? Because you look like you might finally sleep, and it’s got to be more comfortable than this floor. But if you’re not ready to move, I get it. Still dizzy?”

 

“Scale.” It looks like he’s struggling to stay focused.

 

“Oh. Just keeping things interesting.”

 

Matt considers this for a moment. That or he’s just fading in and out of awareness. “Six,” he slurs. His hair’s plastered flat to his forehead.

 

Foggy tries to figure out the simplest way to make this transfer. “You sure?”

 

“No.” He holds up an arm between them.

 

Foggy grabs his hand, his arm, and hauls him up onto the bed as smoothly as he can. Matt’s fingers are freezing against his. He collapses in on himself once his body hits the mattress, burying his moan in the sheets. Foggy moves the trash can nearer to the side of the bed.

 

Matt’s panting, and it takes a long time before it evens out. “Wrong bed,” he murmurs when it eventually does.

 

Foggy sits on the edge of the mattress. Another thing he hadn’t thought of; he’s been sleeping in the bed for a couple of days now. And this is the guy who can tell if the milk in their fridge has gone bad without having to open the door. “Yeah. It was closer. Is it annoying?”

 

“S’fine.” It must be; he hasn’t even lifted his head.

 

“Want some of this water?”

 

“Not moving,” is what it sounds like he says. Difficult to tell when it’s mostly smothered by the sheets.

 

“It’ll be here. Anything I can do?”

 

“M’okay.” His responses are getting more distant, more drowsy.

 

“And I so believe you,” Foggy says. “But I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me go get Sarah.”

 

His friend’s features crunch into a frown, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Why?”

 

“Why? Seriously? If you don’t know why, I’m definitely going to get her.”

 

Matt slings a protective arm up to cradle his head, the long sleeve of his black pullover pressed hard over his ear. “Foggy… shhhh… please…”

 

He lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Sorry. But this? This is beyond just an average headache. Let me go get her. No one else has to know.”

 

“She can’t help,” he mumbles. “M’okay.”

 

“I’m going to start fining you every time you say that. The Matthew Murdock version of a swear jar.”

 

Matt offers no opinion on this. Foggy gets up to wander aimlessly around the room; there isn’t far to go or much to see. One window, two beds. The dresser and a miniscule closet. There’s a low bookshelf under the windowsill, a chair next it where he can sit and skim through the titles on the paperback spines. He finds a lot of Tom Clancy.

 

He grabs one at random, weighs the thick book speculatively on the palm of his hand. Flips to the beginning of the first chapter. Foggy starts reading the novel without intending to; he’s not really interested, and his attention darts between the page in front of him and the Matt-sized ball on the bed. But he spends a half hour this way before he notices, flinching at every loud noise that comes from the hall.

 

It’s nothing compared to the way he jumps when Matt unexpectedly speaks. “S’nothing you can do about it. Relax.”

 

“Geez! You’re supposed to be asleep.” Foggy brushes his hair out of his eyes, picks up the book he’d dropped to the floor. “Nothing I can do about what?”

 

“Noise. S’bothering you.”

 

“Okay that’s more than a little creepy, coming from the barely-conscious blind guy who’s facing the other way. You’ve come to this conclusion how?”

 

The answer’s muffled. “Chair squeaks. Happens every time.”

 

He hadn’t noticed. “Huh. All right, I withdraw the objection. Way less creepy.” But it means that Matt’s been awake, probably the whole half hour. “I could, I dunno, go stand guard at the end of the hallway? Try to keep everybody away from this part of the house? I can be very intimidating.” It’s a silly offer borne of desperation. He wants to do _something_.

 

“Ruin _everyone’s_ holiday,” Matt mutters. He rolls onto his back with a groan, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Won’t make a difference.”

 

It’s a statement washed of color – no trace of self-pity, no sense of exaggeration – uttered absently. A thought slipped free. Foggy’s wondering just how much Matt can actually hear of the house’s activity when something else occurs to him. “Did you think this might happen?” It would explain the flat resignation in his tone. “You did, didn’t you. Is that why you never wanted to come out here with me?”

 

Foggy thinks about all those lame excuses. He should have taken the hint. Hints.

 

Matt scowls, his hands falling away from his head. “I never said I – ” he starts, the words disappearing into a hissed breath. One hand returns to his face, fingers denting into the bridge of his nose. “Any chance we can… can do this later?”

 

“Yeah, man. Sure.” Foggy sighs. “Let me drive you back to the city.”

 

“No.”

 

“Then eat some of that toast so you can take the Advil.” He’s got no idea whether that will make a difference either. But it feels like a good suggestion.

 

Matt waves it off. His hand barely lifts an inch before thumping back to the sheets.

 

Foggy gets up from the chair, leaving the book behind. “I get that you don’t want to,” he says, sitting across from him on the bed that used to be Matt’s, “but you know you have to eat something sometime.”

 

“Says who?” Matt growls.

 

“Says everybody, my friend. Don’t make me threaten you again with my sister’s nursing skills. Because I will. Not at all beneath me.”

 

He exhales loudly. “Fog…”

 

Foggy cringes at the pleading in his voice. He wishes he could just leave the guy alone. “I know.” He shifts over to settle on the edge of the bed Matt’s lying on. The dry toast slides around the plate when he picks it up, shedding crumbs in its wake. “Come on, Murdock. Couple of bites.”

 

“Really don’t want to.”

 

“Been established for the record, Counselor.” Foggy can’t decide if his pallor’s improved at all. He’s going to have to turn the light on in here soon.

 

A sightless glare toward the ceiling. “If I do, will you go’way? Go do… something more interesting?”

 

There’s not a lot he wouldn’t agree to right now if it means Matt’s going to eat. “Deal.” Matt doesn’t move. “Gonna have to sit up, buddy.”

 

Matt directs the glare his way.

 

But he turns onto one side, uses his legs to shove his body toward the head of the bed. Inchworms a path up the headboard with his shoulder. There’s a lot of grunting and heavy breathing; by the time that he’s propped mostly upright, he looks pinched and decidedly nauseous.

 

It seems cruel to offer the food. Foggy waits, chewing on his bottom lip. Matt lays the side of his face against the wall. “… sorry…”

 

“Also a contribution to the swear jar.” He returns the plate to the nightstand, picks up the glass instead. “Here. Start with water.”

 

Matt draws a couple of carefully measured breaths, stretches out an unsteady hand. His first few sips are tentative; he blinks, begins to drink more enthusiastically. He’s probably dehydrated. He finishes most of the glass, appearing a little more alert as he hands it back.

 

Foggy trades the water for the plate. Matt takes it from him, but he’s clearly less thrilled with this part. The plate rests on his legs; his fingers pick at the crust on the toast. There’s no indication that he’s ever going to actually take a bite. “What time is it?”

 

“Almost four,” Foggy reads off the clock on the small table.

 

Matt rubs at his temple. “And… do I remember something about you and a jump rope?”

 

“You do.”

 

“What were you doing with a jump rope?” He finally takes a mouse-sized nibble out of the bread.

 

“ _Way_ too much jumping,” Foggy says. He obliges with a few distracting highlights. Matt manages three more bites – each plainly more unpleasant than the last – before giving up. The toast makes a tiny sound as it’s dropped onto the ceramic plate. His head falls back against the wall.

 

“Not really sure that counts as eating.” Matt’s expression implies that his thoughts on this subject carry very little weight. “You want these pills?” Foggy asks.

 

Matt usually avoids taking any kind of medication, but sometimes he’ll accept ibuprofen. After a few moments of internal debate, he extends a hand. Foggy puts the pills into his waiting palm, hands the water back to him. Scoops up the plate in the process.

 

Someone shouts in another room. There’s hardly any water left after washing down the drugs, but Matt jerks sharply enough to splash some of it onto the bedsheets. Foggy removes the glass from his wobbly grip. “Tell me what I can do,” he says. “Anything.”

 

"Go enjoy your vacation." Matt squirms back into a more horizontal position. “Your family.” He presses his forehead into the mattress. “… better company…”

 

“Better company than you? Not possible.” He can only see a sliver of Matt’s profile amongst the rumpled sheets, but the expression there is scrunched disbelief. “But, since you’re so determined to get rid of me, I’ll go.”

 

“S’not what…” The sheets envelop his words. “… can’t fix it.”

 

He can’t. So he does the only thing that he can: Foggy moves everything Matt might want into easy reach. “Glasses on the nightstand, cane and trash can beside the bed. Your shoes –“

 

_Are where you left them_ , he’s about to say. Because if Matt’s not going anywhere – and Matt definitely doesn’t look like he should be going anywhere – then he’s not going to need them. But now leaving them over there feels almost like he’s hiding them, taking that decision away. At the very least, he’s making finding them a lot more of a pain. “Your shoes are here,” he says, moving them from the end of one bed to another.

 

Matt mumbles something that sounds like a thank you. Foggy gives the room another glance, but he can’t find any other way to be useful. “I’ll, uh… I guess I’ll be back in a little while. Unless you need anything before I leave?” Matt groans into the mattress, curls in on himself. “I’m going to assume that’s a no,” Foggy says. “Okay, I’m going.”

 

Matt throws an arm up over his head. Pulls his knees up to his chest.

 

There’s no one in the hallway, but with every step away from the room the noise filling the rest of the house swells. Music and the buzz of conversation, a crowded hum split here and there by spikes of laughter, raised voices. A fire crackles in the living room, the backdrop for a spirited game of Pictionary. His sister squeals as she guesses the right answer; Foggy winces at the familiar high-pitched sound.

 

Having nothing better to do, he stands near the door and watches the game for a few rounds. Everyone playing seems intently invested; as the score gets closer, the living room only gets louder. Foggy chews on a thumbnail, wishing he could tell them all to be quieter. He imagines himself running around the room shushing everybody.

 

Sarah picks up a mug from the coffee table, wanders over. “You want to get in on this?” she asks him.

 

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The only thing he wants right now is to get Matt out of here. “You kidding? I know better than to challenge the Queen of Pictionary.”

 

She looks over the group. “Be on my team. Jim’s dead weight anyway.”

 

Had he left Matt with any water? Should he go get some? “Nah. I’m happy with my spectator status.”

 

Sarah sulks; now he knows where her kids get their talent. Should have figured it out earlier, really, since he’s seen this look on his sister’s face countless times. She takes a drink from the steaming mug. “Where’s your friend?” she asks. “He finally realize that the rest of the family’s way more interesting?”

 

“Ha ha.” If he tells her, if he grabs her hand and drags her back to the room, he’s pretty sure Matt won’t forgive him. Not for a while, anyway. Talk about a tense car ride home. “He’s taking a nap.” Hopefully.

 

Her eyes are on the players and the frantic chicken scratch marking up the easel; she takes another sip, switches topics. “Have you seen the girls? They’ve been making you something. I think it’s an award for their game.” She looks at him over the rim of her cup, her expression amused. “I hear there was a jump rope.”

 

“There was. I don’t know how you do it.”

 

“There’s two of them. They entertain each other. _I’m_ smart enough to stay out of it.”

 

“That’s some quality parenting,” he teases.

 

“Shut up,” she says. “Talk to me when you’ve tried it.”

 

Sarah’s turn comes around again, and there’s much commotion as the group tries to find her to pull her back into the game. “Think you’re up,” he tells her.

 

“Everyone loves to watch the master at work. If the girls are still outside, will you tell them it’s time to come in? They were out in the playhouse earlier.”

 

He promises that he will. She moves toward the group to accept the black marker that’s being held for her, and Foggy slips out of the living room.

 

He decides to take a walk around the yard, see if he can find his nieces. It’s getting dark. There’s no one in sight outside, so Foggy crosses the yard to the miniature wooden house waiting at the edge of the trees. A relic of his mother’s childhood, it had been built by Foggy’s grandfather for her and her sisters. He’d never gotten to spend much time in it as a kid; in keeping with tradition, his own sisters had claimed it whenever they’d visited.

 

The drawn faded curtain prevents him from looking in through the window, so he opens the door to check inside. It’s as empty as the yard. There’s no electricity out here, and the light from the sunset hardly stretches around him to reach in through the doorway. Everything is painted in different shades of shadow. But he finds signs of the girls’ presence, papers and crayons scattered across the tiny table.

 

He steps inside, his vague snapshot memories of this place being overwritten by a new sense of it with his adult proportions. He’s surprised to find that he can stand completely upright if he stays under the center beam of the peaked roof. That, even with the child-sized table and chairs, there’s still space for him to move around. Foggy thinks about how long this thing must’ve taken to build. Sometimes he’s got trouble putting together his IKEA furniture.

 

He squints at his watch, having trouble seeing the thin hands in the dimming light. He wonders what Matt’s doing.

 

Foggy leaves the little building, crosses the yard back to the house. The curtain of night is also dropping the temperature, and the tip of his nose is cold and numbing by the time he gets back inside. He’s instantly enveloped by the warmth, the noise. Quickly removing his coat, he leaves it on an overloaded hook by the door.

 

He keeps an eye out for his nieces on the way back to the room, peeking in on the groups that he passes. He spots Amelia in front of the TV, Julie sitting behind her braiding her hair. On screen Spock sobs in an empty briefing room, but Emily is nowhere to be seen. When he asks Amelia where her sister is, the only response is an uninterested shrug. He can barely hold her attention long enough to get that.

 

He decides that he should go check on Matt, make another pass through the house to track down Emily. Then he can come back here and settle in front of the TV for a while. He’s tired of walking around.

 

Plus “The Enemy Within” should be up next. Worth it if just for that little dog in the horned alien costume.

 

Kirk’s shouting and Spock’s still crying, and Foggy reluctantly leaves the marathon to head for their room. He frowns when he turns the corner to the hallway and sees that the door’s open. He’d definitely closed it. Even weirder: he can tell from here that the light’s on. He’s positive he hadn’t left it that way either.

 

The explanation comes in the sound of Emily’s voice, spilling with the light out into the hallway. “… and elephants. Do you ‘member elephants? They’re the ones with the long noses.”

 

“I remember elephants,” Matt assures her as Foggy walks in. They’re sitting side-by-side on the bed – his feet on the floor while hers dangle off the side of the mattress – and Emily holds a colorfully scrawled piece of paper between them. She’s pointing to what Foggy assumes must be a representation of the animal in question. Both heads turn toward him as he enters, and he’s struck by their similar postures.

 

“I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you,” he tells Emily. “What’re you doing in here?”

 

It sounds like more of a reprimand than he’d meant for it to, but it feels like he’s spent half of the day wandering around searching for people. And now he can see the tension in Matt’s shoulders, the white-knuckled clasp to the hands hanging between his bent knees. But the chastised expression that flickers over her face still makes him feel like a jerk. “Your mom’s wondering where you are,” he adds, passing some of the blame. “Come on, let’s go find her.”

 

She obediently slides off the bed, leads the way out of the room. In his peripheral vision, Matt collapses against the headboard the moment they cross the threshold. “That for me?” Foggy asks her, pointing to the drawing. Trying to keep his eyes on the picture rather than slumped form of his friend that he can see over her head.

 

Emily nods. “I’m ‘pposed to give it to you with ‘Melia, but she’s watching a dumb old space show.”

 

Behind her, Matt’s crumpled and motionless. Foggy shoves a stray strand of hair off his face, shifting his weight between his anxious feet. “We should probably wait then. Why don’t you go find your mom, and you guys can show me later? She was in the living room.”

 

The edge of the paper crinkles in her grip. “Okay.” She glances down the hallway. Turns back, her small face wrinkling into a frown. “Your friend looks sick. I think he has a tummy ache.”

 

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t know what else to say. The lump of Matt on the bed doesn’t twitch.

 

Emily nods sagely. “I tried to tell him a bedtime story, like when I don’t feel good. But I don’t think it worked. He didn’t want to lay down.”

 

Foggy smiles. “I bet it helped. Go find your mom, and I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”

 

She takes off down the hall, and his exhale is audible in her absence. He goes back into the room, pulling the door closed again. Matt still doesn’t move.

 

“She just barge in here?” Foggy asks, taking care to not be too loud. Sound too concerned.

 

“Knocked,” Matt mumbles. He stirs only enough to bring a hand up to pull off his glasses.

 

“And you let her in?”

 

“What was I supposed to do?” He doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “… looking for you.”

 

Foggy realizes he’s pacing. His hands flutter uselessly in the air, needing something constructive to do. “You could’ve thrown her out.” Matt makes a face, and he remembers who he’s talking to. “Okay, maybe you couldn’t.”

 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. She’s cute… enjoyed it.”

 

If it were less slurred – or if Foggy was, say, _blind_ and couldn’t see the exhausted shape of him, the fact that he can’t seem to even sit up anymore – he suspects it would’ve sounded astonishingly convincing. Maybe Matt’s a better liar than he’d thought. “Well then good news, because I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be back. Maybe with her mom in tow. Though if that happens, it’s totally not my fault. She’s worried about you.

 

“Heard. Sh’sweet.”

 

“As long as you’re not between her and something she really wants. Her mother’s the same way.”

 

Matt sighs. His eyes are slivered into a permanent wince as he slowly starts to maneuver his body more upright. “Where are you going?” Foggy asks.

 

He’s grabbing for his glasses again. “We should…”

 

The sentence trails off to nowhere. “Should what?” Foggy prompts. “Go put in an appearance? How can you possibly think that _seeing_ you is going to convince anyone that you’re okay?”

 

Matt pulls a hand down the length of his face, puts on the glasses. He shrugs a shoulder. “Lost my mirror.”

 

It’d be funnier if it weren’t so ground between his teeth. “Touché,” Foggy concedes anyway. “Just trust me, dude. You look like shit.”

 

Matt directs a scowl in his relative direction. But he doesn’t argue.

 

There’s another surge of noise from somewhere, and he wonders how many there have been that he hasn’t noticed. No doubt Matt could tell him. He remembers the dark quiet of the wooden playhouse; suddenly Foggy knows exactly what they should do.

 

“I’ve got an idea.” There are extra blankets in the closet; he grabs the quilt off the empty bed too. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

 

Matt’s head tips to one side as he tracks Foggy’s movements. “What’re you doing?” he asks listlessly, like he can’t manage to muster much interest in the answer.

 

“Five minutes. Put on your shoes.” He kicks them tumbling toward Matt’s feet, his arms full of fabric. It’s hard to see around the heap of blankets, but he doesn’t miss the way Matt straightens up immediately in reaction to this.

 

“Foggy…”

 

“Not what you think, I promise. We’re not leaving, just relocating. I have to do a couple of things first, and I’ll come back to get you.” Matt doesn’t look particularly appeased, but he doesn’t say anything. He hooks one of the sneakers with his toe, pulling it into reach. “Five minutes,” Foggy repeats, taking the opportunity to exit the room.

 

He opts to leave the house through the kitchen, hoping to avoid having to explain to anyone where he’s hauling all of this bedding. He’s surprised when the kitchen’s empty. Deciding to take advantage of the good fortune, Foggy dumps the blankets on the empty table and heads for the case of bottled water that he knows is always kept stocked in the cabinet by the sink. He’s not disappointed. He throws a couple into the pile on the table, adds an unopened package of crackers. Turns to the refrigerator to see what he might be able to sneak out of there. He realizes he’s getting hungry.

 

“Franklin Nelson,” comes his mom’s voice unexpectedly from behind him, “what in the world are you doing?”

 

He spins around to face her, the refrigerator door swinging closed on its own. “Um…” His eyes follow hers to the linen that covers the kitchen table. “Camping?”

 

She laughs. “What?”

 

“Well, okay, not really camping.” This clearly isn’t enough of an explanation. “Um, Matt’s still got a headache, and it’s kinda loud in here. I just thought... I thought we could go out to the old playhouse so he could have a break. But it’s cold, so… blankets.” She doesn’t say anything. “I’ll wash them when I bring them back in,” he hurries to add.

 

She brings a hand up to cup his cheek; he’s a kid again. “Oh my sweet boy,” she says.

 

Foggy squirms a little under the attention, just like he always did when he was younger. “It’s not a big deal.” He breaks away, leaning in first to kiss her on the forehead. “Besides, who raised me to be this amazing? Credit where credit is due.”

 

“Let me know if I can do anything.” Foggy swears that he will, starts to gather up the mess on the table into something that can be called more of a bundle. “Some of the boys went into town to get pizzas,” she tells him. “I could bring out a couple of pieces when they get back?”

 

His stomach instantly motions in favor of this. His brain overrules. “Better not. I’ll get some later, if there’s any left.” Again her expression demands something more from him. “Uh, sometimes strong smells get to him. The grease might be a little much.” Foggy says this to the floor, feeling like he’s divulging some intimate secret.

 

There’s a contemplative silence. “You remember where the flashlights are?” his mom eventually asks, thankfully changing the subject. “And you boys are going to wear your coats, aren’t you? Do you need gloves?”

 

"Yes, yes, and no," he replies dutifully. She gives him a final inspection; Foggy sneaks a quick glance at his hands out of habit, checking to see if his nails are clean. “Love you, Mom,” he says, when she releases him with a nod of approval. He escapes out the back door.

 

When he trips over a divot in the grass while crossing the yard – probably from the football game, and he realizes when he registers this that he _really_ wants a nap of his own – he tries to make a mental note of where it is so they can avoid it on the way back out here. Everything’s fuzzy in the twilight. He knows he won’t remember.

 

He’s just going to have to keep his eyes open. No problem.

 

The inside of the little house is completely dark now, and though he _does_ recall where the flashlights are kept, for some reason he hadn’t thought to bring one with him on this trip. He leaves the door ajar – not having a free hand to close it with anyway – and in the shallow light that trickles through manages to avoid going head first over the small table. Foggy drops his supplies in a corner on the bare wood floor, tugs the curtain open. He pushes the table into another corner, stacks the two chairs on top of it after gathering the papers into a haphazard pile. There’s plenty of space for the two of them, as long as no one’s doing a lot of walking around. In the time he’s been in here, he’s whacked his head against the ceiling twice.

 

_Maybe this is a dumb idea…_

But he’s already offered enough of it up that Matt’s waiting for him, expecting something. And they might as well give it a shot; it’s not like they have to spend the night out here. He wonders how long he’s been gone. Feels like more than five minutes.

 

Another trek across the yard, but this time Foggy goes up the porch steps and in through the front door. He grabs their coats on the way by, unable to keep from noticing that Pictionary seems to have dissolved into poker. He doesn’t see his sister, which is strange since this is more her game than the last one. A part of him hopes he’ll find her in their room – though he bets Matt would be pissed, not to mention assume he was in on it – but he catches a glimpse of the back of her head as he passes the swelling group glued to the continuing marathon.

 

He doesn’t linger. Emily and Amelia are in there too.

 

When he enters their room, Matt’s got his shoes on. It might feel like a more positive sign if he weren’t still sitting on the edge of the mattress, his head hanging limply over his knees. If he’d moved at all when Foggy came in. Or now, as Foggy’s digging through his backpack in search of his gloves.

 

_Dumb idea._ He hadn’t considered whether Matt’s actually _able_ to walk all the way over there right now. A bit of an oversight, since the last time the guy stood up he’d passed out. He finds one of Matt’s gloves in the bag and continues digging, confidant that the other has to be in there. He should probably get out some of the clothes he’d shoved in earlier, refold them; his friend tends to be more fastidious about such things. “Did you bring a hat?” Foggy asks him.

 

“In there somewhere…” Matt mumbles into his lap, like he knows exactly where Foggy is and what he’s doing. “Where’re we going?”

 

Foggy comes up with the other glove, keeps looking. “It’s a surprise.” He chants _hat, hat, hat_ in his head. Figuring it can’t hurt.

 

“… hate surprises.”

 

Foggy ignores this. He starts pulling clothes out of the bag instead of just rooting through them. “While we’re on the subject, what are your thoughts about taking a walk?”

 

“Think that, if we’re not… was a wasted effort to put on my shoes. Probably don’t need the hat.”

 

“Insightful as always. You know what I mean. You feel up for a moonlit stroll?”

 

“Didn’t realize… we’d reached that phase of our relationship.” He’s still talking to the rug. Foggy can hardly hear him. “How far?”

 

“Not as far as you went earlier. Across the yard. I’ll even see if I can remember some poetry to recite on the way.”

 

Matt groans, finally lifts his head a little. If he could see, his gaze would be directed somewhere around Foggy’s ankles. “Anything but that one you kept practicing to impress… whatshername. Never want to hear that again. Spent the month wishing I was deaf too...”

 

“ _That_ was a magnificent piece of art, brilliantly delivered. Or it would have been, had I actually been given the chance to deliver it.” Foggy drops the backpack on the bed. “And your hat is most definitely not in here. You can wear mine.”

 

“To go for a walk.”

 

“It’s not the walk, it’s the destination. Which isn’t far, and which I’m _reasonably_ sure you’ll enjoy.”

 

“Such a compelling argument,” Matt mutters. “Should be a lawyer.”

 

“One day, my friend. One day.”

 

Foggy hands Matt his coat, his gloves, the knit hat he’d thrown into his own bag at the last minute. When Matt’s fingers discover the oversized pom pom sewn onto the end, the hat’s immediately banished to a coat pocket.

 

“Don’t you trust me?” Foggy asks him. He still looks decidedly skeptical about their undisclosed adventure. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

 

“Uh, besides this hat?” But he’s standing, pulling on his coat. Cautiously, like he expects at any moment to shatter. “What about –?”

 

Foggy cuts him off. “Besides the hat – which is actually awesome – and, yes, besides that party we swore never again to mention. Other than those two _minor_ incidences, would you say I’ve ever seriously led you astray?”

 

“No.” Matt wavers, rocking a bit on his heels; Foggy grabs the arm instinctively flung out for balance. “… trust you.”

 

“Whoa… Matt?”

 

“M’okay. Just a little lightheaded.” He reclaims his arm, straightening the coat out over his shoulders. “Probably need to eat something,” he adds sheepishly.

 

“You think?” This is the _dumbest_ of all dumb ideas. “Maybe you should sit back down, man. You’re looking really pale again.”

 

“I’m okay. Let’s go.” He winces when wave of laughter rolls out to them from another room.

 

Foggy’s not swayed. “When we get home, I’m buying an actual jar. A quarter every time you say that, and I’ll be rich by next year.”

 

“Fog…” Matt says tightly, “if we’re going, we should go soon.”

 

The strained tone wraps its fist around the thought of any more teasing. “You sure? We don’t have to –”

 

“I trust you,” he repeats.

 

Foggy picks up his own gloves and the book he was reading, tucks one of the pillows under an arm. They leave at a shuffling pace through the kitchen; this time he remembers to grab a flashlight from the stash on the way out. It feels even cooler outside now, the sky sparking with appearing stars. Matt takes a deep breath of the night air, closing his eyes behind his glasses.

 

The flashlight proves its worth by enabling them to avoid any nasty dips in the uneven yard, but at this speed the walk seems to take longer than all of Foggy’s other trips put together. They’re not in a hurry or anything, but the way Matt’s listing to the right – after he stumbles, after the third time his shoulder bumps into Foggy’s – is making him nervous. He wants to be sure they make it to where they’re going, and Matt’s heavier than he looks. Foggy pictures himself tugging his unconscious best friend across the grass by his collar.

 

“Almost there.”

 

“Where’s…” Matt’s voice fades out in his exhale; he tries again. “… where’s there?”

 

“Patience, Matthew. You’ll see in a second.” The little house sits waiting at the very edge of the flashlight’s beam.

 

“Doubt it. Not unless… not unless you know something I don’t…”

 

Foggy knows he’s not thrilled with the increasing somnolence dragging at these sentences. Matt’s barely bothering to fully shape half of his words. “What, like I have a secret aunt who knows a spell that will allow you to finally get a look at my handsome face? Sorry, no. But you will get to sit down.”

 

“Good enough,” Matt says.

 

When his shoe catches a clump of grass, Foggy’s already there. The flashlight arcs a swinging swath over the front of the building as his arm’s jarred by Matt’s slumped weight; he leans into Foggy for a long moment before righting himself. Something unseen rustles in the trees just beyond the house, and Foggy’s all the more ready to be inside.

 

“Less than ten steps,” he says. “Seven.”

 

“Seven? M’counting.”

 

“How about you walk and I count. No offense? I’m not sure you can do both right now.”

 

Matt grumbles something unintelligible, but his feet start moving. Foggy steers him toward the door. “What is this?” Matt asks, feeling around the edges of the smaller than average frame.

 

“An old playhouse my grandfather built.” Foggy opens the door so that they can enter. “Watch your head – the ceiling’s really low in here. There’s a table to your right by the wall.”

 

“And, uh… what’re we doing in here?” Matt maps the room with his fingertips, one hand trailing along the ceiling.

 

Foggy shrugs. “I thought it might be good to get away from everything for a while.”

 

Matt turns back toward him, his tinted lenses going opaque when Foggy shines the flashlight on them. “But…” He looks confused. The hand not flat against the ceiling slides up under the glasses to rub at an eye. “What’re we actually _doing_ in here?”

“Nothing. We’re going to sit in that pile of blankets you’re about to trip over, and enjoy the peace and quiet.” With the door closed, Foggy can’t hear anything but their breathing, the scuffing of their shoes. “It is quieter at least, isn’t it?”

 

Matt nods, but he still seems unsure. “So… we’re just going to sit around in a dollhouse.”

 

Foggy moves past him to flop down into the heap of bedding. “Now I’m trying to figure out what kind of bizarre line of dolls you and I would be a part of. But, essentially? Yeah. I mean, you can sleep if you want…”

 

“Aren’t you going to be bored?” He walks a hand down the wall as he lowers himself to settle next to Foggy.

 

Foggy wonders if he’s still dizzy. He gives Matt one of the bottles of water. “I brought a book. Besides, you’re doing me a favor, giving me an excuse to be out here. My sisters would never let me in here as a kid. It always had a kind of forbidden allure.”

 

“Don’t have to do this.”

 

“Except, you know, I feel like I kinda do.” He sets the flashlight between his bent knees, pointing its beam at the door. “Since you won’t let me take you home. It’s the only thing I _can_ do, dude.”

 

Matt’s gone stiff beside him. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

 

“Is this your way of telling me you want to go back to the house? Because we can totally go back to the house.” It seems like a cheap shot when he feels Matt flinch. “Let me help. At least a little. Nobody’s looking for us out here. We’ll hang out until we get tired of it, then we’ll go back inside.”

 

Matt concedes by blowing out a slow audible breath, resting back against the wall behind them. “Promise you’ll tell me. If you get tired of it.”

 

“I promise,” Foggy says.

 

In the shadows at the edge of the light, Matt takes off his glasses and slips them into his coat. Foggy absently studies the bright halo beaming onto the far wall. The moon creeps in through the window to shape a small rectangle on the floor; he ignores the book in his pocket, but he puts on his gloves. He thinks he can hear his own heartbeat in the silence.

 

The dark air smells of dirt and damp wood, and Matt’s shift in position stirs up a puff of dust that makes him sneeze. There’s a squashed grunt of pain; Foggy turns the light on him to find him cradling his head in his hands. “I knew this was a dumb idea,” he mutters.

 

Matt raises his head, unblinking as Foggy directs the light at his face from a foot away. “It’s not. I’m o–“ He catches himself before he says it, the corner of his mouth quirking up at this victory. “S’nice out here,” he slurs instead, pulling one of the blankets over his legs.

 

Foggy’s sitting on the corner of it; once he recognizes this he lifts himself enough that Matt can tug it away. “You too cold?” The plastic packaging of the Saltines he’d snagged crinkles in protest as he nearly crushes them. “I’ve got crackers, if you want to eat something.”

 

Matt’s leaning back against the wall again, his arms folded across his chest. “No, thanks. I’m good,” he says, eyes closing. They immediately crack back open. “M’I allowed to say that?”

 

“Only if it’s true.”

 

“Mostly true.” The flashlight beam casts his face in odd angles, but it does seem as if some of the tension is beginning to leave him.

 

Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking. But Foggy’s got nothing else to offer. He plays the light over the walls, the ceiling. Amuses himself for a while by making shadow puppets against the distant closed door. He shapes a particularly impressive alligator, but quickly loses his enthusiasm for the game when he realizes Matt’s not going to be able to appreciate it.

 

He debates regaling Matt with a vividly exaggerated description of the feat anyway. But it sounds like his breathing is finally starting to even out. Maybe he’s actually sleeping.

 

He doesn’t react when Foggy shines the beam that direction; his eyes are shut, and they remain like that. Foggy clicks off the flashlight. Most of the small room plunges instantly into total blackness, the only illumination the pale moonlight coming in through the window. If he looks away from it, there’s no difference to his vision whether his eyes are open or closed.

 

This, too, is entertaining for at least a few minutes. Like the shadow puppet show, though, it eventually wears through its appeal. He lets his tired eyelids close. Stay that way.

 

It’s still early. But there’s no harm in taking a short nap.

 

In the dark every scratch and hiss is hyperaccentuated, and when Matt’s voice comes it sounds like he’s whispering in Foggy’s ear. “Hey, Fog…”

 

“Mmm?” He doesn’t bother to open his eyes, switch back on the light. His brain already feels sticky with the drag of sleep.

 

“Thank you,” Matt murmurs. “For fixing it.”

 

Foggy smiles into the darkness. “Anytime I can, my friend.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to the watery light of dawn and something soft tickling at the side of his face. His hat on Matt’s head, Matt’s head on his shoulder. A drowsy connection, but one his subconscious is more than comfortable with. Foggy wiggles a little deeper into the warm nest of blankets and goes back to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve yet to see more than three episodes of Season 2, because this show and I were fighting for several months. See I was five minutes into watching 2.1 when a throw-away line outright contradicted something I’d written in an unpublished fic, and I threw a bit of a tantrum and had to turn the episode off because I couldn’t concentrate on what was happening. (Anybody? No? Just me?) Fortunately I’ve calmed down and returned… and boy have I been enjoying the Whump. But, because I’m behind and ridiculous, I’d ask that any comments you might be kind enough to leave are devoid of any S2 spoilers. Cheers.


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